


Kid

by CanonCannon



Series: The Turn [2]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, College Student Paul Rovia, M/M, Police Officer Daryl Dixon, Pre-Zombie Apocalypse, death of a child, mentions prostitution, oblique mention of childhood sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-08 20:03:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10394994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanonCannon/pseuds/CanonCannon
Summary: Daryl knocked loudly, barely resisting the urge to shout. His blood was surging uncomfortably through his veins even after hours in the car. Two kids passed behind him, walking towards the communal shower room. They were talking in low voices about the sickness that was spreading on the East coast. It was all over the news by now.Daryl clenched his eyes shut, trying to focus. Trying not to see the limping, silver-haired human monsters he and Rick had had to kill that morning.He wasn’t abandoning his post. He wasn’t. He’d get back to the station, back to Atlanta, as soon as he knew Paul was safe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second part of a short series. I tried to write in such a way that you shouldn't have to read the first part, which more directly involves potentially upsetting themes like underage prostitution.
> 
> However, even in the prequel, no underage sex or actual prostitution occurs.

Students eyed Daryl nervously as he jogged through narrow hallways on his way to Paul’s room. It made him glad he was in uniform. Everyone kept well out of his way.

Or perhaps they kept away because of his shaking hands and frantic expression. Regardless, it was a good thing. He wouldn’t have reacted well to a nosy R.A. getting in his face today.

Paul lived in Auburn University’s cheapest residential hall, and had done for the past year and a half—even with his hefty scholarship, the kid couldn’t afford the fancy new complex with the private bathrooms and spacious common areas that they’d been shown on the campus tour. The dorm was aging, with thin carpet and cinderblock walls. The vague smell mold seemed to grow worse every time Daryl visited. Every door was painted an ugly gray and had a cheap whiteboard glued to it.

Someone had drawn a dick and a pair of tits on the board outside Paul’s room. Fucking college kids.

Daryl knocked loudly, barely resisting the urge to shout. His blood was surging uncomfortably through his veins even after hours in the car. Two kids passed behind him, walking towards the communal shower room. They were talking in low voices about the sickness that was spreading on the East coast. It was all over the news by now.

Daryl clenched his eyes shut, trying to focus. Trying not to see the limping, silver-haired human monsters he and Rick had had to kill that morning.

He wasn’t abandoning his post. He _wasn’t_. He’d get back to the station, back to Atlanta, as soon as he knew Paul was safe.

A tall guy with spiky black hair finally appeared at the door in a billowing cloud of marijuana smoke. He could only be Kal, the idiot roommate. At the sight of Daryl’s uniform he instinctively began closing the door, as if hoping the policeman wouldn’t notice that it had been opened.

In a flash, Daryl’s foot was against the door jamb. “Where’s Paul?”

Kal’s reddened eyes widened. “Pa- oh, you mean Jesus? He’s, uh, he’s in class, Officer. Art History.” The boy fiddled anxiously with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“When’ll he be back?” Daryl demanded, ignoring the stupid nickname. He’d already assumed Paul was busy with classes today—it had to be why he wasn’t answering his fucking phone. Usually the thing was attached to his hand like it was welded there.

“Uh… couple hours? Unless he’s going to the library afterwards-”

“Right. Put some damn shoes on,” Daryl snapped. He needed to get to Paul _now_ , not in two hours.

“What?”

“You have the same schedule, other than Digital Media,” Daryl growled, stepping forward into the tiny dorm room. “So you know where his Art History class meets. You’re supposed to be there and you’re ditching to smoke a bowl instead. Now put your fucking shoes on and take me to him.”

Comprehension finally dawned on Kal’s handsome, stupid face. “Oh god, you’re _Daryl_.”

“Let’s stick with Officer,” Daryl grumbled, watching the kid stumble into some tennis shoes.

—

Kal pointed him towards a gigantic lecture hall before scurrying back the way they’d come across the quad. For a long moment Daryl stood at the door to the room scanning the seats, panicking because he wasn’t seeing Paul among the sixty or seventy kids blinking back at him in the dim light of the powerpoint presentation.

When the ancient professor at the front podium finally noticed that her class was thoroughly distracted, she looked up from her lecture notes with an irritable scowl. “May I help you, sir?”

Daryl fought against the feeling that he was going to get suspended or some shit for interrupting. “Um, sorry to intrude, ma’am. Need to collect Paul Rovia? His roommate said he’s in this class.”

The students began murmuring with interest, maybe thinking their classmate was in trouble with the law. Daryl hardly noticed because a sudden movement caught his eye in the back corner of the room—a dark blond head jerking up from a desk, obviously just waking up.

_Paul._

He was alright. He was alive. The plague hadn’t spread here, not yet at least.

Without meaning to, Daryl slumped against the wall, his strength running out of him all at once.


	2. Chapter 2

Until the moment Paul began hurrying down the stairs of the lecture hall towards him, Daryl was too concerned with finding him and getting him somewhere safe to even think about the fight they’d had the last time they’d seen each other. It had fallen away in the terror of that morning, when he’s had to shoot an unarmed elderly civilian who was inexplicably trying to get her jaws around Rick’s neck. And the terror had continued—had grown much, much worse—as he and Rick watched the others in the old folks’ home, those already bitten, begin to turn into monsters in front of their very eyes.

With that burned into his mind, his argument with Paul just wasn’t on his radar as he sped from Georgia to Alabama, frantically dialing the kid’s cell phone. Now that he remembered, Daryl wondered distantly how Paul would react to seeing him. Maybe Paul had been purposely ignoring his texts and calls; maybe he wouldn’t even agree to come with him.

Didn’t much matter. Daryl would drag the little bastard off by his hippie hair if he had to, if it meant Paul would be protected from the monsters.

It seemed to have become an annual tradition with them, having a vicious fight sometime around Paul’s birthday, and this one was even more volatile than usual because the lightweight had had a few shots in him to celebrate his 21st. At least this year’s screaming match hadn’t started with Paul throwing himself at the older man, thank Christ for small mercies. Daryl vividly remembered peeling the boy off of him the night after he turned 19, horrified to feel Paul’s hard on against his leg and sick with shame when his own body started to respond.

He hadn't actually wanted to fuck Paul back then. Shit, no. They'd been roommates for just over a year at that point, and more than that, they'd become friends, strange as the beginning of that friendship was. His dick had just gotten confused that night, having a warm body pressed against him and an insistent (if inexperienced) tongue poking at his lips.

Paul had been embarrassed and angry afterwards, lashing out like the teenager he was. He always seemed to do that, to demand that Daryl see him as an adult in the exact moments when he was acting most like a child.

Now, walking down the classroom steps with a quick stride and a frown under his bushy beard, Daryl had to admit to himself that Paul looked like a man. Hell, Daryl was 35 and he couldn’t grow a beard like that. His came in all patchy and scruffy.

Maybe it was the horrible, disorienting fear, but somewhere in the back of his mind Daryl had expected to see Paul as he'd been the night they met: the skinny, scared child he’d been sent to pick up off a corner in a known cruising zone in Atlanta. He had been so vulnerable, just the wrong side of 18 and desperate and hungry enough to try to trade sex for some quick cash—which meant he was desperate and hungry enough to accept Daryl’s help when the officer took pity and offered him his spare room.

It was easy to be the good guy for those first two years, to be the responsible adult the kid l needed in his life. Paul hadn't been looking for a father figure, thank Christ--Daryl wasn't cut out for that shit--he'd just needed some kind of stability while he got his life in order. And once he finally accepted that Daryl didn’t have ulterior motives in offering up his couch to a would-be prostitute, the boy had blossomed. He kept their shitty apartment clean and got a job teaching karate to pitch in with rent. (Daryl appreciated the effort but set the money aside in a savings account.) In his spare time Paul studied for his high school equivalency, made friends with the neighbor girl, and obsessed over some band Daryl absolutely hated. Next had come college applications, and that was the only point Daryl sort of felt like a dad, driving him around to scholarship interviews and sitting nervously in the waiting room with obnoxious parents who always felt the need to inform him that he looked too young to have a child in college.

The memory of moving Paul into that shitty dorm, Rick and Daryl carrying boxes in from the truck while Michonne made the bed and the kid unpacked his books, still made Daryl’s chest ache with pride. He let his mind dwell on the good memories for a moment. It needed a break from seeing silver hair splattered with blood and yellowed teeth reaching for his partner’s vulnerable neck.

Now Paul was standing across from him outside the classroom looking wary and expectant. Daryl tried to gather his thoughts, unable to keep from blushing at the idea that with their fight fresh in his mind, maybe the younger man was waiting for some kind of admission or declaration, like Daryl had driven two hours from Atlanta just to sweep him into his arms, press their mouths together, pull their bodies… _shit, no_.

Daryl's thoughts scattered, and the monsters took the opportunity to invade his mind again. Lips moving together in passion were replaced by misshapen mouths gaping and groaning with a hunger for human flesh.  _He's safe_ , Daryl thought as he scanned Paul's body over and over again--he wanted to touch him, just to make sure, but refused to let himself.

Two years ago Daryl had viewed Paul as a child. It had been so easy to shrug off a nineteen-year-old's feelings as misplaced gratitude or a silly crush that would melt away once he had a bunch of smart, good-looking college guys knocking down his door.

Suddenly Daryl didn't have the energy for denial, so it hit him like a freight train: Paul had been in college for over a year now, and Daryl's feelings were the only thing that had changed between them. 

Yeah, thank Christ Paul hadn’t tried throwing himself at Daryl on his birthday this year.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Paul asked, brow furrowed, hand reaching hesitantly to Daryl’s arm. “Daryl, are you ok?”

The police officer hadn't been able to focus since that morning, his mind ping-ponging around between the monsters, his duties in Atlanta, and Paul. Staring at his friend in the florescent light, everything fell away except Daryl's overwhelming relief at seeing the little shit safe and sound.

His eyes filled with tears.

“Daryl,” Paul repeated, voice shifting from concerned to worried. “Say something. Is it Rick? Did something happen at work? Is it-”

Shaking his head—because no matter what Paul said next, he wasn’t going to guess that a plague was bringing the dead back to life—Daryl grabbed hold of his shoulder and pulled him into a tight embrace.


	3. Chapter 3

Daryl had left his cruiser parked illegally, lights flashing, right outside the dorm. They passed it on their way back to Paul’s room.

The cop’s face was pale and his uniform had a large splash of what had to be fresh blood on the shoulder. Paul couldn’t tell if Daryl was even aware of the looks they were getting as they pounded upstairs.

Thankfully Kal had cleared out, but Paul cringed at the cloying scent of weed that completely permeated the room. Usually Daryl would make some sort of half-joking, half-threatening comment about keeping his nose clean, but instead he just collapsed into Kal’s desk chair and buried his head in his hands.

He jerked it back up again when Paul sat across from him. “What’re you sitting down for? Get packing!” His hands were shaking. He didn’t seem to notice that, either.

“Look, all you’ve said is that we need to evacuate, and I just- I don’t get it. No one else is leaving. I read some articles online about the illness but it sounds like they’re already close to containing it, right? Everyone’s saying not to panic-”

Daryl laughed hoarsely, standing and pacing in the small room. “Them newscasters or whoever, whoever’s saying not to panic, they don’t know shit. This ain’t just some fucking flu.”

Paul stood, too. “Ok, so… what about my friends? Everyone else on campus? If it’s really that bad, I can’t let Kal and Eduardo and Rory-"

“Jesus fucking Christ, send 'em a damn text, one a' them snappy thingies, I don’t give a shit. Just do it when we're in the fucking car, alright?”

The frenzy in the other man’s raised voice had Paul taking a step backwards. He persisted anyway. “But if we have to evacuate right this second, shouldn’t they also-”

Daryl turned and pressed both hands against the wall, chin dropping to his chest. It was as close as he could get to hiding from Paul without leaving the room or climbing under the bed. When he spoke his voice was quiet. “You asked once about repaying me for- for letting you stay with me back then. Remember? Made a big fucking speech about it.”

Paul stilled, eyes wide. Daryl turned to him, face deadly serious.

“This is how. Shut your mouth and pack some clothes, pack anything important to you, and get your ass in that car. Now,” he said, voice nearly breaking on the last word.

“Daryl…” Paul said, stepping forward, alarmed to see the sheen of tears returning to those narrow eyes. He’d never seen Daryl cry before today. 

The cop shrugged him off and continued, “Maybe there ain't a reason to panic yet, maybe me and Rick are being pussies, but we saw it. We _saw_ it, and we gotta get back to Atlanta to do our jobs, and I… if this thing spreads, it'll go bad quick.” He looked away, towards the window. “It’s shitty and selfish that I’m even here. I should be at work, people are gonna need help, but- but I need you _safe_.”

Daryl was the bravest person Paul knew, yet there was raw fear bleeding out of each syllable he spoke. The student licked his lips, his mouth suddenly feeling dry and cottony.

He began packing without another word.

—

The mood in the car was strained. Daryl kept his radio on the whole time, tuned to some emergency broadcast. Paul stayed quiet, one foot folded under him.

“Wish I’d taught you to shoot,” Daryl said out of the blue. When Paul opened his mouth to object the man cut him a thin smile, “Yeah, I know, you’re some kinda ninja now. Still wish you could shoot.”

“Black belt,” Paul corrected, then added, “You- you’re freaking me out, you know.” He paused, expecting Daryl to reply with something comforting about being overly cautious, something about 'better safe than sorry'— _something_.

It didn’t happen. Paul tried again. “You really think this is going to, what, overwhelm the big cities' ability to cope? Like they'll have to send in the National Guard, maybe?”

Daryl sucked his teeth, still silent.

“Daryl…”

“I don’t know, kid, alright? I don’t. But after this morning…” The policeman hesitated before continuing, “Rick and I got this call, some kinda riot. A riot at a goddamn senior care home. They only dispatched one car cause, you know, it’s old folks, right? Some old granny had died overnight, terminal cancer, but… guess she hadn’t died, really. And she… and then some a’ the others got sick, too, and… and they _changed_ somehow. Don’t make no kinda sense but they started attacking the healthy ‘uns. By the time we got there…” Daryl shook his head. His face was ghostly white and he was sweating. “Then after, we hear on the radio that one a' the ones that got, uh, attacked, he coded in the ambulance, but…” He shook his head again, harder. Paul tried to remember if the older man had finished a single sentence since he started trying to explain. “They’ll find a cure. Brainiacs at the CDC are already working on it. Just gotta stay safe ’til then, ok? Out in the sticks in case things go to shit in the cities. Rick’s getting Carl, and he sent Michonne and Andre ahead to get the cabin ready.”

“Is Lori coming too?” Paul asked, tensing.

“Reckon so, yeah.”

“So you’re leaving me in Rick’s cabin with his girlfriend, his kids, and his godawful ex-wife that probably still calls me ‘Daryl’s hooker boyfriend.’”

Daryl winced. “You shouldn’t care what she thinks, Paul. Look at you now, fancy scholarship, Dean’s List. Black belt, all that shit. Hell, _she_ ain’t ever been to college.”

Daryl hadn’t gone to college, either, so his snobbery was all on Paul’s behalf. With a small smile, the student turned towards the window and watched a pair of helicopters fly by overhead.

—

From the look of her overfilled car, Michonne must have just about emptied out the general store in the nearest town over. She was trying to keep hold of Andre while also unloading big bags of food when the men pulled up.

“Paul!” she said, eyes warm as he got out of the car. “How’s school going?”

“Uh, good,” he replied, shouldering his duffle bag awkwardly as Daryl took the supplies from her hands. Andre hid behind his mother, still a little shy of Paul. “Although I’m not sure how my professors will feel about my unscheduled vacation.”

They chatted for a few minutes while Daryl carried the food into the cabin. When the cop walked back towards the cruiser Paul dropped his bag on cabin's porch and broke away from Michonne to stand in front of him. Rick’s girlfriend disappeared into the cabin with her son.

The two men stared at each other for a long moment.

“Be careful,” Paul whispered. He knew better than to ask Daryl to stay, not when the man felt he had a duty to be in Atlanta.

Daryl nodded jerkily. “Y'all keep close to the cabin, hear me? Keep the doors locked. Help Michonne with the kid,” he rasped. “And tell Lori to fuck off if she’s rude to you.”

“When will you be back?” Paul asked quickly as Daryl took a step back from him. He hated seeing fear in those blue-gray eyes.

“Don’t know, kid.”

Without warning Daryl stepped forward again, leaned in, and kissed Paul’s cheek chastely.

“For luck,” Daryl muttered, face red as he avoided Paul's gaze. Then he got into the police car and drove away.


	4. Chapter 4

Daryl drove to meet Rick at Lori’s place; it was only forty minutes down the road from the isolated cabin. She had moved back to their tiny hometown after the divorce to be closer to her parents. It also effectively kept Rick further away from Carl, not that his partner had let a little thing like distance deter him. He drove to every damn little league game, often with Daryl in the passenger seat.

Lori had never really liked Daryl all that much and had turned even colder towards him since the divorce. Daryl didn't usually give a shit, but he knew Paul was going to feel all kinds of uncomfortable stuck with her in the small cabin. Rick was too good a guy to leave her in danger, though, and Daryl couldn’t blame him. Carl needed his mom.

It threw him that Lori’s street seemed so normal, with its pristine front yards and charming little houses, Honda Civics and basketball hoops in the driveways. In the evening sunlight it was hard to believe the horror he and Rick had seen that morning was real. Even Rick loading up his truck in Lori's driveway looked like a small-town dad packing for a family vacation.

“Hey Uncle Daryl,” Carl called as Daryl pulled up in front of the house. The boy was practically prancing around the driveway, freckled face beaming. “We get to go to the cabin even though tomorrow’s a school day! Are you coming, too?”

“Where is he?” Rick asked sharply, ignoring his son. “You never texted me back. Did you- is he-”

“Shi- shoot, I mean. Sorry. I got him. Texted when I dropped him at the cabin but you know the signal’s shi- spotty up there. He’s with Michonne and Andre. She’s got the place looking like a food pantry, bought a crapload of canned food. Hope you like pork and beans.” Daryl pulled Carl into a side hug as he spoke. “What’s all this?” he asked, nodding at the bed of Rick’s truck.

Rick sucked in a restraining breath as he looked over the two huge suitcases and assorted bags. “Carl, head in and get your stuff now, alright? Thanks for helping me with your mom’s.”

“Paul’s coming too?” Carl asked brightly, not moving at all, exactly as if his father hadn’t spoken. At his age Daryl would have been backhanded for that.

The redneck nodded, mussing the child’s hair. “Yeah, he’s up there. Go do what your daddy asked, now.”

Carl darted off, obviously thrilled with the whole day.

Rick watched him go, then turned back to Daryl. “Told Lori she should plan on holing up for two weeks max, that we’d probably get the all-clear before then, and she’s packing for the damn apocalypse. Some of it’s food but most of it… She wants her juicer cause she's doing a cleanse, whatever the hell that means. And she says the pots and pans in the cabin are cheap. Says they burn everything.”

Daryl snorted. “Man,  _she_ burns everything.”

“Yeah. Don’t get me started on the clothes and makeup. Five fucking pairs of shoes, none of them practical. You know how she is whenever she has to see Michonne.” They paused awkwardly at the barrier between normal talk and the horror they’d witnessed that morning. Finally Rick asked, “Any trouble getting to Auburn?”

“Nah, just more emergency services out than normal. Saw one of the- the sick people, pretty close to campus. Had me in fits ’til I found the kid.” He chewed on his nail, looking at the ground. “I didn’t even stop. Just blitzed by.”

“Hey. You were making sure Paul was safe, and now he is. So now we can get back and help.”

Daryl nodded, pretending that made him feel any better. “Look… we ain’t overreacting, are we? Just… kid’s gotta keep that scholarship. Missing classes, it’s a big deal.”

“We aren’t overreacting,” Rick said firmly, confidently, precisely as Daryl had hoped he would. “Hell, I passed by a wreck on the way here, just outside of town- _this_ town, not Atlanta. Stopped to help, and…” he trailed off, eyes distant. “It’s spreading fast. Faster than the models predicted and faster than the news is reporting. Governor just put a quarantine on Atlanta and a couple other big cities, but it’s too late. It’s already out of the cities.”

“Quarantine? Think they’ll let us in?”

“We’re police, they’ll want us there to help. Just… might be awhile before they let us back out.”

Daryl frowned, looking at his partner. Rick kept his eyes on the front door, waiting for his family. 

They stood in the humid Georgia breeze listening to the growing chirping of crickets and the occasional car passing by, knowing they might not get out of Atlanta at all.

Half an hour later, they sent Lori off to the cabin in Rick’s truck and sped back towards the city regardless.

—

They never made it to Atlanta.


	5. Chapter 5

Paul woke up to the sound of Lori’s voice in the small kitchen. He had fallen asleep on an old maroon couch in the cabin’s living room, his Western Civilization textbook draped across his chest.

As he rubbed his eyes he heard Lori more clearly. She sounded frustrated. “I’m- I’m not trying to cause a fight here. But my first priority is Carl.”

“I know that,” Michonne replied, and Paul was startled at how icy her voice was. While they weren’t ever exactly friendly, usually she and Lori got along well enough. They'd planned Carl's last birthday together. “Keep it down a little, he’s right there.”

Lori made an uncomfortable sort of humming noise and neither woman spoke for a moment. Then Lori continued, much more quietly, “I’m not necessarily saying Daryl’s done anything wrong. And it’s not… I don’t care that he’s gay. But Paul was seventeen, five years older than Carl is now, and he _looked_ even younger, when-”

Paul pushed his book off his chest, letting it clatter to the floor. Then he sat up slowly as if just waking up. He kept his clenched fists out of sight behind the cushions.

“Hey Paul,” Lori said, only a little awkwardness in her smile. “We made some dinner.”

“Have we heard from Daryl and Rick yet?” he asked, ignoring the offer.

“Don't have reception. We’ll drive into town tomorrow, call and check on them,” Michonne responded, frowning. “Rick was going to get internet service up here and Daryl talked him out of it. Said it would spoil the place.”

Paul couldn’t help it; he glanced at Lori the moment Daryl’s name was mentioned. She had turned away from the conversation and was busy washing dishes, but Michonne probably noticed the look.

“Thanks for making dinner, but I think I’ll just go to bed. I’m still pretty wiped and I need to write a paper tomorrow.”

“Air mattress is in the loft,” Michonne said, voice soft. “We had Carl pump it up for you.”

“Sleep well,” Lori added with a false cheeriness, still not looking at him.

“Thanks,” Paul said, and he went to climb the ladder to the cabin’s small loft above.

—

The next day, while Paul avoided Lori and wrote his Western Civ paper, Michonne drove into town. She brought back hamburgers for dinner and reported that Rick and Daryl were stuck at the quarantine line outside of Atlanta. Rick hadn’t stayed on the phone long; the policemen were assisting the National Guard and Georgia State Patrol, since they couldn't get back to the precinct.

Paul was the one to drive into town the day after that, since he had to email his paper to his professor. He sat in the tiny internet cafe for almost two hours after sending it, Daryl’s phone ringing and ringing in his ear. Rick’s number went straight to voicemail.

Michonne and Paul went together on the third day, only to find that the cell phone network had gone down completely overnight. Their phones wouldn’t dial out. The internet cafe wasn’t open and the streets of the tiny one-horse town seemed deserted.

When the two returned the following morning to try again, they saw their first walkers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was supposed to be four or five tiny chapters max.
> 
> FML.


	6. Chapter 6

Paul and Michonne sat in the car, Michonne behind the wheel, arguing over whether or not to drive to the slightly larger town thirty minutes away in hopes of finding internet access, a landline, or perhaps get in range of another cell phone tower. Michonne was gentle but unyielding. She had Andre and Carl to think of, had promised Rick and Daryl she would look after Lori and Paul as well. She wouldn’t put them both at risk for a hypothetical phone call or email. Paul understood all of that.

But they also hadn’t heard from Daryl or Rick since the morning after they left.

The cabin had a shitty clock radio, and the night before they’d gathered around it like it was a campfire. Rioting had engulfed Atlanta. The quarantine lines weren’t holding

Worried out of his mind about Daryl and trying desperately to reason with Michonne, Paul almost missed the people coming towards them. It was a group of three, a couple of blocks away and getting closer: a woman, a man, and a young boy. The man and the boy shared the same flaming red hair color and white skin, so probably a family.

Their pale skin made the blood covering their hands, forearms, mouths, and chins stand out starkly.

Staring, Paul tried to figure out how they were walking when they’d lost so much blood. He couldn’t imagine how much pain they must be in, and they’d heard on the radio that the CDC was still only “on the verge” of a breakthrough, “getting closer” to a cure. The family was likely doomed.

“Michonne, look.”

She did, peering into the rearview mirror. Her mouth twisted strangely and she started the car.

On impulse, Paul opened the door and stepped half out of the sedan. “Hello!” he called, over Michonne’s hissing warning. “We can’t get close, but is there anything we can get for you? There isn’t a hospital in this town, but the next one over down the interstate has a small one. I’d let you use my phone, but-”

The gusty wind shifted direction, and Paul heard the moaning. He broke off abruptly but took a step closer, staring at the little family.

The woman’s arm was clearly broken, arm bent grotesquely in the middle of the humerus, yet she didn’t seem to be in pain. Their skin was… fuck, _curdling_ seemed like the closest descriptor.

Fascinated and horrified, Paul asked rhetorically, “Is this some kind of, shit, leprosy or something?”

“I don’t know, Rick just said it’s highly contagious and the infected get extremely violent, so sit your butt back down and let’s get out of here,” Michonne answered, now tugging on his sleeve.

Just then a motorcycle came roaring around the corner, probably from the interstate judging by the direction. It pulled over suddenly between the lumbering family and their car, and two figures in helmets clambered off.

Paul would recognize one of them anywhere, even climbing off an apparently stolen bike in a set of army camouflage. He was about to shout for Daryl when the man pulled a crossbow off his back—where had he gotten another crossbow?—and shot the infected man through the eye.

Next a bolt flew through the woman’s skull.

The boy lurched towards Daryl, showing no concern at all for his dead parents. After a long pause Daryl raised his bow a third time.

 

—

 

Paul didn’t remember much of the following hour.

Daryl had refused to explain until they reached the cabin, but Michonne just kept silently shaking her head and staring at him like he was a murderer. Which he _was_ —Paul had seen it too. He’d murdered a sick family. A sick little boy.

Daryl and Rick stood aside for a moment talking in low voices, and finally Rick managed to get Michonne into the passenger’s seat and he took the driver’s seat.

Paul realized he had Rick’s helmet in his hands, but wasn’t sure how it had gotten there. He was still glancing every few seconds at the limp corpses down the street.

“C’mon, kid,” Daryl said quietly, pulling him away from where he was frozen by Michonne’s sedan. Paul noticed for the first time that Daryl’s clothes were filthy. “C’mon. I’ll explain when we’re safe. But those folks—they were already dead, Paul. And leaving ‘em walking wouldn’t’ve done no good.”

Nodding absently, Paul followed him to the bike, climbed on after him, then clung to Daryl’s waist as they flew up the twisty mountain road on the stolen motorcycle. Trusting Daryl was too deeply ingrained in him; he couldn’t stop now if he tried.


	7. Chapter 7

“They wouldn’t let us into Atlanta. Quarantine, no one in or out. Holding the line was chaos so we joined up with some Highway Patrol assigned to keep people out. Folks had heard there was a refugee center in the city I guess. I don’t- I- they fucking bombed the whole city. Just…” Daryl’s whole body was shaking. He wasn’t crying again yet, but he was close.

He and Rick had already explained this once, inside when they first arrived at the cabin. Now Daryl and Paul sat on the swing outside. The cop was clutching his new crossbow—they’d made a rule that anyone who went outdoors from now on had to be armed.

“You’re ok. You’re safe now,” Paul murmured, hands rubbing the older man’s back.

“But- but all those people- like at the precinct- Captain Horvath, T-Dog, Jim from dispatch. Or the neighbors. I texted Morales, maybe…” Burying his face in his hand, he didn’t finish his sentence. His shoulders started shaking.

“I’m sorry,” Paul said quietly, putting his arm all the way around Daryl now, petting his hair. It was still damp from his shower. “I’m sorry. But you’re here. And you got me here. I’m safe because of you.” _As always_ , he wanted to add, aching for his friend.

Wet eyelashes fluttering, the cop nodded. He had only sobbed for a few moments. Trying to be strong for Daryl, Paul managed to hold himself together until he thought of the kids he’d taught butterfly kicks at the YMCA the previous summer.

Then Daryl was comforting him instead.

 

—

 

By the time Rick insisted that they all try to sleep, Paul was calmer than he’d been in town but still felt drained and hollow. The image of the boy falling to the ground, Daryl in front of him with a raised weapon, kept running through his mind.

The cabin was crowded, and the bedroom Daryl usually took on fishing trips—the tiny one with just two single beds and a nightstand—had been given to Lori and Carl. Rick and Michonne had made Andre a little camp bed on the floor of the master bedroom out of the couch cushions, leaving Daryl to join Paul in the little loft.

The men kept falling towards the center of the cheap air mattress.

After an uncomfortable twenty minutes of trying to stay separated, Daryl gave up on personal space and they settled in together, Daryl on his back with Paul curled against his side, his head resting on the man’s broad shoulder.

They'd never done this before, laid in a bed together. Paul knew that in any other circumstances, Daryl would have gone and slept in the front seat of Rick’s truck. If they’d had any spare bedding, he’d probably have slept on the loft’s wooden floor beside the mattress.

Paul let himself push his leg slightly on top of Daryl’s, knowing he was going to get pushed away but unable to help himself. The world was terrifying and Daryl’s arm was around him. The simple contact had his heart pounding.

Daryl didn’t push him away.

So Paul closed his eyes, snuggling even closer once he realized Daryl was too tired to fight him over it. _Shame_ , he thought to himself as he drifted off,  _Probably the only time he’ll let me do this, and I’m going to sleep through it._


	8. Chapter 8

Sometime later, in the confusion of the dark, Paul’s dreams turned to nightmares.

It started out fine. He was clinging to Daryl on the back of a motorcycle, inhaling the smell of leather and whatever cheap deodorant the man used. Then, despite the fact that they weren’t actually interacting in the dream, Daryl was somehow broadcasting that distant, quiet mood he used get into any time Paul tried to flirt with him a little.

It made Paul’s blood boil, so he poked and prodded spitefully at Daryl’s shoulder. In dream-logic it felt like adequate revenge. They pulled over, and suddenly they were in front of their apartment in Atlanta, ready to finally have it out.

But then, with a burst of groaning and high-pitched screaming, the family Daryl had killed stumbled out of the lobby. They looked different than they had on the side of the road, still more alive than dead, but with clouded eyes. Still, somewhere in his mind Paul knew they were already dead; Daryl had explained how the sickness worked.

In the dream it didn’t matter. Paul relived the morning’s fear and disbelief in agonizing realism when Daryl raised a gun and blew them away.

He woke, eyes popping open but otherwise staying still and quiet, trying not to wake Daryl.

But then Daryl raised his arm and stroked his hair. Paul couldn’t help the soft, satisfied sigh he let out, and Daryl’s hand kept moving.

This wasn’t something they did, casual touching. None of this was something they did. Maybe it was the terror threading its way through every moment of the last few days or maybe it was simply the darkness that made it easier for Daryl.

Paul wondered it he would _ever_ admit what was between them in the daylight.

“You alright?” Daryl asked. It sounded as if he hadn’t slept at all.

“Sorry. Nightmare.”

Daryl sighed deeply and kissed his forehead, quick and innocent. That made two times he’d kissed him—there’d been that kiss on the cheek, equally startling, when he’d left for Atlanta.

Paul both loved and hated it, that rapid-fire peck.

Daryl didn’t seem satisfied with it either, and a second later he was kissing Paul's temple. Then his cheek again.

Paul returned the favor by leaning up and kissing that gorgeous beauty mark.

The cop went very, very still. The air felt suffocating, like they were suspended in amber. “Get some sleep, kid,” he said finally, his voice croaky.

“Not a damn kid,” Paul returned. He put his head back on Daryl’s shoulder and drifted back to sleep.

—

A few days ago, Paul would have said that breakfast was a nightmare. Considering the content of his actual nightmares, though, breakfast was just irritating and awkward.

“Paul, you could take that side room with Carl, honey. I’d be happy to share with Michonne, help her out with Andre.”

Rick looked utterly perplexed. “I’m sleeping in the room with Michonne.”

“Well, you said we’re just up here for a few days, I thought you could-”

“I’m fine with Daryl,” Paul interrupted sharply, holding her gaze. “We’re good.”

They were saved an uncomfortable moment by Andre tossing his bowl of oatmeal to the floor. Rick sprang up to retrieve it.

“Honestly, Daryl could take the couch,” Lori continued as Rick wiped up gunk from the floor. “I know it’s just a loveseat but it’s not for long.”

Daryl was nodding, looking ashamed, and Paul wanted to scream. “Yeah, I can-”

“Shut up,” Paul said, elbowing him hard in the chest. “You wouldn’t be able to walk after a night on that thing. I fell asleep there on accident and even I was aching, and I’m in much better shape than you. Lori, thank you, but we’re comfortable up in the loft, I promise.”

“Better shape, pft. Not his fault he’s old,” Rick teased, oblivious as always.

Paul, Lori, and Daryl all winced.

—

“I just think we should check in on them. No way have those _things_ made it this far up the mountain, right? They were mostly in big cities when the radio went out,” Michonne reasoned, facing Rick and Daryl head on. “If a few of us go, we can watch each other’s backs. Straight there and straight back, won’t take long.”

They’d finished eating, the breakfast dishes were clean, and now they were trying to think of some useful way to spend the day. There was a family, the Jones, that lived a couple of miles away, the closest thing the cabin had to neighbors. They stayed half the year there and half in Atlanta, and fortunately they should have been holed up in their snug log cabin for about a month by now.

“Morgan can take care of himself. I’m sure they’re ok,” Rick said weakly.

“And if they need help? If they need food or something? They have a boy Carl’s age, Rick.”

“Then they can come to us,” Daryl replied, glaring.

“We should go,” Paul put in urgently, leaning forward. “Even if they don’t need help, that way we know if they’re up here in case _we_ need help. Isn’t Jenny a nurse? The radio said the hospitals were overrun, if we need help we can go to her.”

He knew by Rick’s silence and Daryl’s irritated huff that he’d won the fight.

Except— “What’s this _we_? You sure as hell ain’t coming.”

“What?!” Paul stood, outraged. “I’m a better fighter than-”

“Michonne can shoot,” Daryl interrupted, which was probably for the best, because Paul had been about to say _than you_.

“I can shoot the crossbow!”

“You ain’t coming. That’s final.”

Paul’s eyebrows shot up. “Since when do you make decisions for me?” Because Daryl never had, not even when they first met and Paul was homeless and alone at seventeen. The man had never once tried to parent him like this.

“Since you started trying to get yourself killed making stupid fucking decisions! Good lord!” Daryl's voice rose to a shout and he stormed his way out of the cabin, rushing past a wide-eyed Lori who had just hung their laundry out to dry on the line.

“I got it,” Rick said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“ _You_ think Paul should come?” Michonne looked shocked. “I mean I think he should, too, but I thought you would be on Daryl’s side.”

“You didn’t see his black belt test. He could kick a walker in the face and it’d be enough,” Rick explained, hurrying out the door.

“What’s a walker?” Lori asked. Paul and Michonne shrugged.


	9. Chapter 9

In the end Daryl was overruled, despite forming an unlikely alliance with Lori over Paul’s safety.

Rick pointed out that they themselves had graduated the academy and been newbies on the force at Paul's age, and that having four people meant they could pair off to cover more ground. He talked at length about Paul’s black belt test, like Daryl hadn’t been the one who asked him to come record the damn thing.

None of Rick's arguments budged Daryl an inch until he pointed out that Paul would be safe with the two of them there looking out for him. That got Daryl thinking about the kinds of stupid shit Paul might try to do if he was left behind and sulking about it.

Honestly, Paul was too damn used to having his own way, and Daryl couldn’t sustain the pretense that he had any real parental authority to wield—not after years of insisting on just being the kid’s friend, and definitely not with the kinds of thoughts he’d been having about Paul recently. Putting his foot down like some kind of father figure felt awkward and forced, and creepy as fuck to boot.

He did manage to cow the kid into agreeing to stay behind him if it came to fighting, at least.

It was better than nothing.

—

They had two crossbows, since Daryl had taken one from an abandoned car, so he gave Paul the new one with the lower draw weight and kept his Stryker for himself. They all wore hunting knives, too, and Daryl loaded his sidearm and secured it in its holster.

As Lori loaded a frankly unnecessary number of water bottles and cereal bars into the trunk of Michonne’s car, gun strapped to her tiny thigh just in case, Rick pulled Daryl aside. “You thought about what we’re gonna do if they’re up there, but… you know…” he said quietly, glancing toward Michonne. She was trying to calm a sobbing Andre, explaining that Mama would be right back.

“Yeah. We take care of it. Send Michonne and Paul back to the car and do what we gotta do.”

“That easy, huh? With someone we know, someone we’ve had over to dinner? With _Duane_?”

“Nothing easy about it, but it’s what’s right, Rick, and you know it. You shot one straight through the heart and it kept coming—they ain’t human no more.” Seeing his brother’s nauseated face and shaking hands, Daryl put a hand on his shoulder. “If it’s Duane… I can handle it, alright? I get how you feel, with Carl and all. You ain’t gotta worry about that.”

“And if I get bit out there? Or Paul?”

Daryl felt the words like a punch in the gut. “Ain’t gonna happen.” 

“But if-”

“What the hell, man? Why the fuck ya even asking shit like that? That's why we got away from the towns, there ain't gonna be a- a herd this far up.”

“Just making sure we’re on the same page. You and I are trained for things like this, they ain’t. We need to have a plan if it goes south.”

“Plan is to keep him behind me, keep an eye out for Michonne, and for you to watch your ass,” Daryl snarled, spinning away and marching to the car.

—

They parked at the top of the drive and walked down to the house, not wanting to startle the Joneses. Every so often Rick or Daryl called out quietly for Morgan or Jenny, keeping a sharp eye ahead while Michonne and Paul scanned the woods around them. The area did get hikers and campers sometimes, not usually at this time of year, but there was still some risk of a stray walker coming from nowhere.

As they rounded the last bend to the Jones’s place it all went south, far quicker than even Rick could have imagined.

—

 _At least no one has to put Duane down_ , Daryl thought in a stunned, horrified daze.

The boy’s body was ripped apart on the porch, his mother kneeling beside the corpse digging into it with her bare hands. She ignored their approach, but as soon as Michonne realized what was happening—that the mother wasn’t sitting beside her son in grief, trying to help him, but was instead feasting on his guts—she ran forward with an incoherent shout, gun pointed ahead of her.

Daryl couldn’t blame her, but it would have been better to put Jenny down— _no, not Jenny, just a walker_ , he reminded himself harshly—it would have been better to put it down with the bow.

The gunshot echoed through the trees.

Michonne retched, then sobbed helplessly into Rick’s shoulder. Paul threw up next, and Rick looked about ready to as he yanked a tarp from the woodpile to cover the bodies.

Morgan wasn’t outside the cabin that they could find, and didn’t reply when they knocked. Daryl tried not to think about what that could mean.

—

“We should clear the cabin now,” Paul whispered urgently. He was pale and trembling, but holding it together better than Daryl had expected. “Just you and me. Look at her, Daryl. She shouldn’t have to go in there. And what if Morgan is inside but just couldn’t respond? What if he’s hurt, or sick?”

“We shouldn’t split up,” Daryl grunted, throwing his weight behind the shovel as he dug a grave. Rick was a few feet away doing the same.

If Morgan was hurt it was likely from a bite, and that meant it was too late for him regardless. He doubted Paul would let them leave without trying to find him just in case, though. Neither would Rick or Michonne, for that matter, the damn do-gooders. None of them had a lick of sense.

Pausing for a moment and resting his weight on the shovel, Daryl glanced at Michonne through his bangs. His brother’s girlfriend looked haunted, sweating despite the crisp, cool air. She was leaning against the shed where they’d found the shovels, trying to make a pair of rough crosses for the graves, but every few seconds her eyes wandered to where Rick had covered the bodies with a tarp from the wood pile.

“I thought that’s why I came along, so we could pair off.”

“You came along cause you’re a bratty little shit who can’t take no for an answer,” Daryl replied without heat. He added, gently as he could, “No reason to clear the cabin. If Morgan ain’t answering, well, we ain’t gonna find nothing good inside. Should get back to Lori and the boys, start getting the place more secure.”

That was all he wanted, all he could think about: finishing the graves and getting the hell out of there. Putting some added security around the cabin while they still had some daylight. It looked like the Joneses had been stringing lines of bottles and cans around the property as a warning system for walkers when shit had gone down—a smart idea employed a little too late. Daryl was also going to board their place up, starting with the big glass door to the backyard.

“Even if Morgan is, uh, gone, we should put him to rest with his family. And… I hate to suggest it, but if he _is_ gone… there might be food and weapons in there we can use.” Daryl’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and the kid flushed. “I know, it’s awful, but we might be stuck up here longer than a week. Maybe a lot longer. If there’s stuff in there they aren’t going to use…”

The cop looked up at his friend. Paul was covered in dirt from his turn digging, his hair up in a messy knot on top of his head. He looked shaken but determined.

“Yeah,” Daryl said slowly. “Yeah, you got a point.” After several more silent minutes of digging, he climbed out of the grave. “Need a break anyway.” He turned to Rick. “We’re gonna clear the house. You and Michonne keep an eye out.”

Rick nodded, glancing back to where Michonne was staring at the two crosses she’d made. “Honey, you wanna take a turn digging?” Turning to Daryl he added, “I’m gonna keep watch, be ready to run in if y’all holler.”

“Thanks, man.” Hefting his crossbow, Daryl jerked his head for Paul to follow him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to write the characters softer, since this is the beginning of the apocalypse, is interesting. I think Michonne in particular would be horrified by this sight.


	10. Chapter 10

Standing on the bloodstained porch, Paul tried to breath deeply and keep his mind clear. His hands were sweaty against the crossbow.

“Keep behind me and do exactly as I say, without asking a million fucking questions. Can you do that? Cause if not, your ass is staying here even if I haveta cuff you,” Daryl growled at him, eyes serious.

Paul nodded and refrained from pointing out that he could pick the lock on most handcuffs. Instead he raised his crossbow to move forward, but the cop wasn’t done yet.

“Paul. I mean it.” Gray-blue eyes looked into his, deeply serious. “I know you can fight, but you ain’t trained for this. I gotta be able to keep you safe. Promise me.”

“I promise.” Apparently he said it too quickly, because Daryl cocked his head skeptically. “Really. I promise,” Paul repeated, looking his friend in the eyes.

“Alright then.”

—

They didn’t find Morgan inside the cabin.

They did find a wealth of supplies, though. Some additional guns, but mostly food and medicine, something Michonne hadn’t thought to stock up on. Jenny obviously had—there were at least a dozen first aid kits, plus a box of medications. Paul picked one up idly and recognized the name of a common antibiotic.

It was a prescription bottle, and the name on it wasn’t Jones. So how badly were the cities affected, if good people like the Joneses had already begun scavenging pharmacies for supplies? If Jenny had been more concerned about stocking up for a future without hospitals than about losing her job?

Paul suddenly felt very, very stupid about finishing that paper for his Western Civilization class.

He wandered around a bit more, poking his head into a couple of rooms. There was a game room with a fold-out couch that had been made up. Two suitcases sat on the pool table. Across the hall, the master bedroom had plywood nailed over the windows, as did Duane’s tiny cubby of a bedroom. Paul backed out of that one quickly, throat tight. He hadn’t known the boy well, but they’d all gone fishing together a couple of times. He was a good kid.

“Morgan might come back,” Daryl grunted when Paul reentered the living room. He was over in the kitchen examining a box that was apparently filled with potatoes and onions.

“Would he really have left Jenny and Du- would he have left them, though? Like _that_?”

Daryl didn’t answer. He opened the fridge instead. “Still got power.” Their own had flickered and died the day before. “Draws water from the same well as our cabin, but Morgan put in solar panels a couple years back.”

“I remember,” Rick said from the front door, making both of them jump. He was pale and filthy. Michonne came in behind him, still looking green. “You made fun of him something awful. Called him a tree-hugging democrat, if memory serves. No sign of him?”

Shaking his head, Paul moved to close the door.

“He might come back,” Daryl repeated stubbornly.

“He might,” Rick said, walking further into the room. His eyes were on the ceiling fan, which was still spinning lazily above them. “If he does, we’ll share.”

“What?” Michonne asked, snapping out of her stupor for a moment.

“Solar panels,” Rick replied, gesturing upwards at the fan. “And three bedrooms, every single one of ‘em bigger than our master. _And_ they’d already started securing the property.”

“Not that it helped,” Paul reminded him, almost gagging again at the memory of Jenny leaning over Duane’s body.

“They weren’t done—we’ll finish what they started. And we don’t know what happened, maybe Jenny or Duane got bit somewhere else.” Rick glanced around at the group, meeting skeptical gazes in all directions. “It’s the right move. I know we said we’d probably only be out here for a couple weeks, but the ways things looked in Atlanta-”

“Even with a cure, things’ll be shit for awhile,” Daryl finished the thought, frowning. He raised his thumb to his mouth, gnawing, a nervous habit Paul knew the man hated. “Military will have to round up them that’s already bit, restore order… civilization ain’t gonna be civilized again for months at least, maybe a year.”

“Let’s do it,” Michonne said decisively. Rick glanced at her, unable to hide his surprise, and she shrugged. “You think it’ll be safer here for Andre and Carl? Cause that’s all I need to know. If Morgan comes back and has a problem with it, we’ll talk about it then.”

—

The drive back to their cabin was oppressive and tense. Rick wasn’t sure how they would convince Lori to leave for the Jones’ cabin, especially if they told her the truth about what had happened to Jenny and Duane. Michonne argued that Lori needed to know, that they could only really make a plan to survive if they were all on the same page. Her voice shook when she spoke about the need to protect the boys above Lori’s feelings.

“That’s not fair. She wants to protect them, too, I just don’t think she grasps the situation we’re in. She’s still talking about going home next week.”

In the back seat Daryl stared out the window, picking at a tear in his jeans. Paul tried to cover his hand to stop the nervous fidgeting but Daryl jerked away, scowling.

Paul tried to ignore the dull sinking sensation in his chest. He knew Daryl, knew how prickly he could be when he was sad or angry or even just lost in thought. They were all exhausted and on edge. What had happened at the cabin hovered unsaid between them all like a cloud of poisonous gas.

“I think I’d better talk to her first,” Rick was saying in the front seat as they finally pulled into the drive. “You three hang back in the car for a bit, at least until I’ve pitched the idea. She doesn’t like it when folks gang up on her.”

Daryl’s eye roll was so large it could have affected the tides, but he merely crossed his arms and slouched down in his seat. Michonne nodded absently as her boyfriend closed the car door, still seeming distracted.

Scanning the woods around for any sign of a threat, Paul tried again to imagine staying in the Jones’s cabin, walking daily over the rusty red stain on the pinewood porch.

—

Less than a minute after Rick left the car, three gunshots rang out from the cabin.

Daryl was up and running before Michonne and Paul had even flinched from the sound. Instead of his crossbow he had his sidearm drawn as he approached the cabin door. Michonne scrambled after him, leaving her car door wide open, and Paul brought up the rear, crossbow raised.

He only realized there was shouting inside when he noticed that Daryl had frozen outside to listen. At first Paul couldn’t hear anything through the buzzing in his ears, but finally his sluggish brain began to decipher words—Rick’s voice, probably loud enough to carry all the way to the lake.

“What the hell are you even doing here? How did you know-” He broke off at the sound of Lori’s voice, but Paul couldn’t make out what she’d said. Then it was Rick again, louder than before. “That right? All of a sudden, after God knows how many years, you give a shit? Cause the last time I saw you, you were beating the living hell outta-”

Suddenly Daryl lowered his weapon and charged through the door. Blinking, Paul tried to catch the back of his shirt and pull him back, but it was too late—he’d stepped right into the line of fire. Not knowing what else to do, Paul walked in after him, crossbow raised.

A man he’d never seen before stood near the back door, gun at his side and three corpses littering the ground just outside the cabin. One of the bodies was clearly Morgan Jones, and the other two look like they may have been relatives. It was hard to tell for sure—they’d obviously caught the virus awhile ago.

The man who had put them down was gaunt, with dark stubble covering his head. He was eyeing Daryl even through Rick stood threateningly near, his Python pointed right between the stranger’s eyes.

Holstering his gun and collapsing onto the couch, Daryl said tiredly, “Answer the man’s question, Merle. What the fuck are you doing here?”

 


	11. Chapter 11

“Who used to give Darlina here a ride out to this love nest back in the day? Was just an old RV here back then. And y’all were out here every goddamn weekend before I realized ya were pulling some kinda faggy bullshit-“

“Rick ain’t gay,” Daryl growled. “ _I_ am, dickhead.”

“Know what I saw,” Merle said stubbornly, glaring at Rick. “And you weren’t no queer until-“

“Jesus, what do you _want_?” Rick said, voice hard and sharp. Paul’s eyes flew to him and stuck there. His expression was completely foreign, a cold rage in place of his usual open warmth.

Shifting his weight, Paul balanced the crossbow in his arms, prepared to act if things went wrong.

Merle snorted contemptuously but didn’t answer. Silence hung heavy in the air alongside the corrosive scent of death. Morgan’s rotting body was slumped on the floor alongside the two other infected corpses. Lori was pale as chalk, supporting herself with one bony arm on the counter in the kitchen, her eyes fixed on the congealed blood sprayed across the cabin’s dark wooden walls.

A door opened somewhere in the back of the cabin, and Carl’s light steps were audible in the hall.

Sighing, the crossbow raised with one arm, Paul walked to Lori and gently peeled her clutching hand from the counter, then led her towards the hallway, tugging when her gaze got stuck on the three gruesome bodies. He didn’t try to stop her from looking, though. The rest of them had seen this horror already, and Paul thought maybe Lori needed to see it, too.

Michonne followed them to the hallway and took charge, guiding Carl back into the room and pressing Lori to lay on the bed. Without a word Paul closed them all inside and hurried back to the living room, where he found Daryl leaning forward on the couch looking thoughtful. Rick was still bristling by the door, but he’d lowered his gun and his trigger finger was resting along its barrel. Merle had shifted to sitting jauntily on the tiny rickety rocking chair, leaning back with one ankle propped lazily on his opposite knee.

Merle. God, had Paul wondered about Merle, the biological brother Rick had so thoroughly replaced in Daryl’s life. There was one picture of the man in Daryl’s apartment but it was unrecognizable; the man in the photo was so much younger and handsomer than the one in front of Paul now. He was around twenty then, pressed into a flawless army uniform and standing tall beside a pale, unkempt, unsmiling woman with Daryl’s eyes and cheekbones.

Paul knew very little about Daryl’s family, and what he did know he’s discovered by accident. He only knew Daryl had a brother because he’d once overheard a phone call between them shortly after he moved in, and he had pieced together that Merle was in prison and was asking Daryl, his cop brother, to vouch for him at a parole hearing. Daryl had called him a ‘simpleminded piece of shit,’ and hung up, but Paul suspected Daryl had testified anyway—he’d disappeared in a suit on one of his days off the following week.

Michonne reentered the room and stalked gracefully to Rick’s side, and Merle’s eyes followed her swinging braids. He broke the silence then, though it only added to the tension in the room. “Came up to check on my baby brother and this is the kind of welcome I get. Fucking pigs, man, and my own brother’s one of ‘em. S’more of a disgrace than being a pillowbiter, Darlina.”

“How about being a methhead criminal scumbag?” Rick was still seething. “Daryl can take care of himself-”

“Yeah? That why your folks had to stick their noses in, back in the day?”

“He was a kid, and you and your dad were-”

“You’re here to check on me,” Daryl asked, interrupting Rick, tone thick with skepticism.

“End of the world.” Merle waved his hand vaguely, sounding sanctimonious. “Judgement day. Oughta be a time for family. Blood, little brother.” He shot another glare at Rick. “Although Daddy must be spinning in his grave, seeing both his boys in a room full of queers and nig-"

Paul wasn’t surprised at all when Rick surged forward and punched him in the mouth, hard.

Daryl was up in a flash and leapt in front of Merle, which Paul took that as his cue to help Michonne hold Rick back. He tuned out her gentle words trying to calm her boyfriend and listened to Daryl’s instead, hissed quietly in his brother’s face.

“ _Blood_? You wanna talk about blood, now? All blood ever got me was sixteen years of getting my ass whooped and four years with a fucking shrink convincing me I can’t help being a fag- being gay.” He cut a glance at Paul.

Merle cut his eyes that direction, too, before shoving away from Daryl and holding up his hands in defeat. He was silent a few moments before saying, “Alright, alright, I can tell when I ain’t wanted. Guess old Merle don’t belong with your little affirmative action co-op. I’m meeting my own posse in town tomorrow anyhow, just delayed a bit to look for your sorry ass. Thought maybe you’d come here if you got outta the city.” He paused, looking down before meeting Daryl’s eyes. “I’m glad, you know. That you got out. Heard all kinds of shit on the radio.”

Daryl looked at his hands. “Glad you’re ok, too, you prick.”

Merle snorted, then stood and stretched out his back, facing Rick. “Alright with you if I head out in the morning, Officer Friendly? Brought some game, I can share. I’ll even help you burn these, uh, folks.” He gestures at the remains of Morgan and the other two corpses.

“We’ll bury them,” Daryl corrected, before turning to Rick and Michonne and grimacing. “Ain’t safe out after dark.”

Rick scowled and turned to Merle. “Sleep in the truck. You’re leaving first light.”

—

They sent Merle out to begin digging, more to give themselves a chance to regroup than anything.

Examining Rick’s knuckles, Daryl sighed and shook his head ruefully. “Least you ain’t the one on your ass this time.”

“Or you.” Rick shook out his hand, frowning. “It’s a fairer fight. I’m... sorry,” he added unconvincingly.

“Man, if you hadn’t I woulda.” Daryl pinched the bridge of his nose then looked around the room in a daze. “Thanks for letting him stay the night. I know he’s a piece of shit. Just... I gotta talk to him some more, make sure he’s got an actual plan with that dumbass gang. Maybe figure out a place to meet up once shit settles down.”

“Hey, I get it. Best I can say is, he was never as big a piece of shit as your dad.” Daryl just huffed, so Rick continued, “I’m thinking, though… we should be ready to leave for Morgan’s cabin pretty quick after Merle heads out tomorrow morning. There’s no reason he would know about Morgan’s place, and… I’m sorry, Daryl, but I don’t trust him, and I sure as hell don’t trust his fucking gang.”

“Yeah. Probably a buncha skinheads he met in prison.” Daryl was avoiding looking towards Michonne.

“You think they’d come back here and make trouble for us?” Paul asked, watching Merle through the window as he dragged the first body towards a stretch of dirt a few yards from the back porch. How two men so different could be related was beyond him.

Daryl just shrugged. “We should head over there soon anyhow, really finish securing the house. Y’all start packing, I’ll handle Merle.”

—

Nighttime settled uneasily over the cabin. The truck and Michonne’s car were loaded with supplies. Even the motorcycle Rick and Daryl had brought from the city had been rolled into the bed.

Daryl had quietly put some of their supplies into the saddlebags of Merle’s motorcycle, and no one had tried to stop him. There’d been some debate about waiting to bury Morgan with his wife and son, but Rick and Daryl’s practicality won out over Paul’s scruples. On the outskirts of Atlanta they’d observed the infected—‘walkers’ as the soldiers had called them—traveling in herds, and no one knew why. If the scent of the damned attracted other walkers, they couldn’t risk carting Morgan’s body back to his family.

Paul was on watch on the porch with a gun and crossbow beside him—his phone’s clock told him he was supposed to stay out another hour before waking Merle. He had insisted on taking the next shift, followed by Daryl and then Rick until dawn.

Shifting uncomfortably in the porch chair, Paul stood and stretched. He was restless, jumping at every sound, but he’d also insisted on taking a shift. His holstered gun still felt strange and heavy on his hip as he paced silently, freezing near the cabin’s cracked window when he heard Merle’s voice in the dark.

Paul cursed the way his heart pounded in terror. He’d thought everyone was asleep.

“Where the hell are you even gonna go with all this dead weight? Even with all your supplies, they ain’t built to survive. Ain’t like us.”

“Heading to Fort Benning. We’ll be safe there.”

“Nearly a hundred miles away? Better fucking hope the highway ain’t blocked. Think Miss Head Cheerleader is going to be any help when shit gets tough? Or pretty boy, or that Nubian queen? And Rick’s gonna protect Carl, probably strap that half-breed to his back-“

“You ever shut the hell up?”

“I’m trying to save your life, dipshit,” Merle said. “You and Officer Friendly can’t protect all these folks. Now my gang, we got-“

“Merle,” Daryl said tiredly. “You already know I ain’t going with you.”

“You think you fit with these- these goddamn Democrats? Think they want you hangin’ around? You ain’t nothing but a freak to them, little brother. The Grimes kept you like a trained monkey, getting money from the state to look after you-”

“Because Daddy threw me out, and you showed up long enough to kick my ass for something I couldn’t help-“

“For Christ’s sake, Darlina, it was twenty fucking years ago. That therapist a’yours weren’t much good if you still can’t get over one little fight.”

“I was in the hospital for a _week_.”

“What the hell do you want me to do, turn back time?” There was a long silence before Merle spoke again. “Didn’t know about that other shit, with Daddy. Knew how he’d been with me, but you were- you were always the sweet one. Didn’t think you’d give him cause.”

“I didn’t. Neither did you.” Paul’s throat ached at the sadness in Daryl’s voice. “Merle… this is where I belong. I ain’t leaving these folks for a buncha drug dealers and Nazis.”

“Always fucking think you're better then me, huh?”

“Man, you really think your friends would want me there? Are you hearing yourself?”

“If you could keep quiet about all that gay shit-”

Daryl sighed, loud in the night air. “Go to sleep, Merle. When this is all over I’ll find you back at home, alright? Keep safe, don’t let those assholes you run with talk you into anything stupid. Rick and I were at the quarantine line and shit’s gonna be bad for awhile. Lay low. Find a place to hole up.”

Paul never heard Merle answer, but a door slammed a few moments later.

—

By the morning, Merle was long gone.

So was their truck full of supplies.

And so was Paul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I'm alive, and trying to post again sometimes.
> 
> I haven't been reading fics or even watching the show, but life is calming down a lot.
> 
> Aside from the part where my wife and I adopted a newborn son last month.
> 
> We'll see how things go. Regardless, though, I've missed all you Desus people a lot <3


	12. Chapter 12

“Paul! Daryl! Get down here!”

Still more than half asleep, Daryl burrowed his head into his pillow.

“Daryl! _Now_!"

Daryl sat up with a start, the air mattress wobbling around him. Paul’s pillow slumped onto the floor beside him.

Early morning light shone through the dusty venetian blinds of the room’s tiny window. He heard someone bang their way out the front door below and frowned, taking stock of the empty loft. Someone should have woken him for watch. Merle had taken the slot after Paul, and Daryl had finally let himself crash when he heard the kid brushing his teeth at the kitchen sink downstairs sometime around 11:00 the night before.

Maybe that was what had Rick’s panties in a twist—they’d agreed that someone should be awake at all times in case something unexpected happened.

Daryl had slept in his clothes, jeans and a ragged shirt with the sleeves cut away. He rolled out of bed, straightened the waist of his pants, and went down the ladder to see what all the fuss was about.

He just assumed Paul had already gone downstairs.

—

“Merle stole the damn truck.”

“ _What_?” Daryl asked stupidly, looking around the drive as though the truck would appear out of thin air if he only kept searching for it. Rick had yanked him out of the cabin right as he got downstairs.

“Merle. He never woke you for watch duty because he was busy stealing our supplies right out from under us.” Rick perched his hands on his hips, face grim. “That son of a bitch.”

They walked up the gravel drive to the winding dirt road. Daryl couldn’t think of anything worthwhile to say, so he just observed, “Tracks head downhill, back into town.”

“Yeah, well, he told us where he’d be. And who he’d be with.” Rick was obviously struggling to keep his cool. “We gotta get out of here _now_ , head to Morgan’s. If he left halfway through the night, he and his gang could get back here any minute to get the rest of our supplies and do god knows what else.”

“I get what you’re saying, but… Rick, maybe I could talk to him, try to work something out. He was pissed off last night, but Merle wouldn’t let his gang hurt us, not really-”

“Don’t,” Rick started harshly, then visibly got himself under control. “ _Merle_ hurt us. He took almost all our food, the fishing poles, the tools, even the damn _toilet paper_ , with no clue that we’re planning to take over Morgan’s cabin. He left us—left _you—_ to fend for yourself. Again. So I’m not risking us being here a second longer than we have to.”

Daryl swallowed hard, then again. It still took a moment before he could say, voice cracking,“I’m sorry, man. That I let him stay last night. I know he’s an asshole but I didn’t think he would…” He trailed off.

Pinching his brow, Rick sighed and clasped a hand to his shoulder. “Merle’s bullshit ain’t your fault, never has been.” They began walking slowly back towards the cabin. “What do we tell the others?”

“The truth. Lori ain’t gonna be surprised, anyhow.” They were from the same hometown—she knew all about Merle Dixon. “And Michonne and Paul probably figured out yesterday that he’s not exactly a model citizen.”

“Speaking of, why didn’t Paul come down with you? I know college kids like their sleep and all, but we’ve got to get moving… you need a bucket of water or something?”

“What are you talking about, he wasn’t in bed when I…” Daryl was looking at Rick for an explanation when an icy feeling slipped down his spine.

They both ran the rest of the way to the cabin.

—

“He’s not at the lake,” Michonne said an hour later.

They’d searched everywhere nearby, twice over now. Daryl even pulled the ladder out of the shed and looked on the roof, knowing what a monkey the kid could be.

They hadn’t found a single sign of Paul.

“Daryl, you’re sure his things are all still in the loft?”

Fighting nausea, Daryl merely nodded.

“We need to start searching the woods,” Lori said, distractedly handing a juice box to Carl. “I know you don’t want to holler, but-”

“We _can’t_ ,” Rick repeated for the hundredth time. “We can’t risk attracting the dead. You’ve only seen three of them at once. Picture a hundred of them surrounding this place.”

She shivered.

“No tracks leading out into the woods, anyhow,” Daryl said. He was surprised that he was able to speak without throwing up. He was sitting at the kitchen table despite the panicky energy coursing through him. “Paul doesn’t know how to hide his tracks, not really. I’d be able to find him if he’d just wandered off.”

“But why would Merle have taken him?” Rick asked, also for the hundredth time. “What possible reason could he have?”

Michonne leaned her elbows onto the counter, frowning. “He… well, he didn’t seem to be a fan of gay people.”

“But how would he have even known-”

“Don’t matter,” Daryl interrupted, standing suddenly. The chair tilted dangerously behind him, but it didn’t fall. “I’m going after them.”

“I’ll come with you,” Rick said, just like Daryl had known he would.

“Rick, don’t be ridiculous,” Lori said.

“She’s right, man. You’ve gotta get Lori, Michonne, and the kids up to Morgan’s cabin, keep ‘em safe. I’ll meet y’all up there once I… once I find him.”

Michonne glanced at Daryl edgily. “Look, now isn’t the time for this ‘protect the women and children’ thing you have going on. The Jones’s place isn’t far, the car is already packed up, and Paul could be in danger. Lori and I can both shoot a gun. We’ll leave now with the kids, you two… you go find Paul.”

—

Merle had left his big Triumph and they still had the police Harley they’d jacked from the garrison outside Atlanta. Daryl would take the heavy chopper since he had more experience riding, so Rick poured some of their precious spare fuel into the police bike.

“We’ll make a plan when we find them,” Rick said, capping the small red plastic tank. “No sense trying to figure out a course of action until we know how many there are.”

Daryl appreciated that he said ‘when’ instead of ‘if,’ even though they both knew it was dicey. He doubted his brother’s gang would stay in one place for long after stealing a shitload of supplies from two cops.

 _If they’re smart they’ll flee the country_ , Daryl thought darkly as he checked the bullets in his chamber. _And they’ll have left Paul behind._

It was the most likely scenario he could come up with. Paul must have seen Merle making off with their shit, so Merle took him for a ride to ensure he couldn’t raise the alarm. There was no reason at all for Merle to hurt Paul—they hadn’t even talked, had barely been in the same room.

Daryl had made sure of it. He didn’t want Merle anywhere near Paul.

_Merle might have guessed, though. The kid does look kind of queer._

_He also doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up about fucking ‘gay rights’ and shit like that._

Daryl shuddered, thinking back to when Merle had first found out he was gay. Their father had called him a faggot one too many times and Daryl had finally cracked, spitting out ‘Yeah, so what?’ like the hotheaded moron he’d been back then.

He’d been able to dodge the old man’s fists and get to Rick’s place, storming out of their decrepit trailer with the just clothes on his back. Rick had driven them up to the lake and they’d sat side by side next to the old fire pit, trying to work out what Daryl could do to get away from his family. They’d fallen asleep by the dying embers, Rick’s arm curled around Daryl.

That’s how Merle and his three friends found them hours later when they were sent by Will Dixon to drag his scrawny ass back home.

Daryl got the worst of it. When he woke up in the county hospital a few days later, Rick’s dad had already petitioned the court system for temporary custody of him until he could be legally emancipated. Old Will Dixon hadn't put up a fight, 'that little fag ain't no son of his' and all that shit.

Daryl’d refused to testify against his brother, though. He’d been a pussy back then, but today he knew that if Merle and his goons had laid a hand on Paul, they would wish they were back in lock up.

Holstering his gun, he threw a leg over the Triumph. “Follow me. I’ve got a couple of ideas where they might hole up.”

—

They were halfway down the mountain heading towards town when they saw the truck in a ditch on the side of the road, one back wheel in the air, surrounded by a half-dozen walkers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me after writing the last chapter: "I shouldn't leave this cliffhanger dangling too long..."
> 
> Me now: "... much better?"


	13. Chapter 13

Paul was bleeding when strong arms pulled him from the driver’s seat of the old truck. He felt it in a sticky line down his temple.

“This just happened. Engine’s still warm,” someone said. They sounded far away.

“Paul!”

Another voice was shouting in his ear. _Rude._

The scent of decay was everywhere, and he was suddenly laying on his back under the trees. Pine needles prickled his neck and hands.

There was a hand on his temple, prodding, gentle in way the voice was not.

“Any sign of Merle?” Rick asked—it was Rick, Paul could tell. Through his lashes he could see those ridiculous cowboy boots, just a few inches from his face. Both men were crouching over him.

A few feet away Paul could see the remains of several walkers, crossbow bolts sticking out of each of their heads.

He closed his eyes again, shuddering.

“Nah,” Daryl answered, sounding distracted. The hand on Paul’s faced stroked his cheek. “Keep an eye out, would you? Make sure nothing sneaks up on us.”

“If Merle’s not here, we should get to Morgan’s now. Who knows where-”

“Not sure we should move him,” Daryl said grimly. His hands were touching Paul’s neck, feather-light.

“M’ok,” Paul managed, trying to get up on his elbows at least. The gentle hands held him down at his shoulders.

“Paul,” Daryl breathed out. “Where does it hurt?”

“Just the bump on my head. I think I knocked it on the steering wheel.” Things were beginning to come back to him. “There were, uh… walkers, in the road. I swerved. Stupid.”

“Where’s Merle?” Rick asked, urgent. Paul blinked his eyes open in time to see Daryl shoot the other man an annoyed look.

“Um. Somewhere around mile marker 226?”

“That’s… what, forty miles downhill?”

Paul nodded, then regretted it immediately. Fuck, his head hurt.

“How’d you get away?”

_What?_

“What?” Paul asked, clueless.

“How did you get away?” Daryl repeated Rick’s question. “From Merle.”

“What do you mean, ‘get away’? He never knew I was there.”

Silence.

Paul managed to sit up, head pounding. The world around him was still too bright so he scrunched his eyes closed yet again, hand coming up to feel the gash on his temple.

“Are you saying… that you… you… Merle didn’t…”

Daryl seemed to be at a loss, so Rick took over. “If Merle didn’t know you were in the truck… Paul, _why the hell were you in the truck_?”

“I saw him trying to sneak off—I was on the porch last night. He was about to leave, he was filling the tank. I’d forgotten my phone out there while I was on watch, so I went out to get it.” He’d been awake far past when he got off watch, sitting alone in the pitch black living room quietly going to pieces wondering if Maggie got to her father’s farm alright and hoping that Kal hadn’t tried to go back to Atlanta.

No need to mention that part, though.

Rick’s face went through a series of contortions, which Paul watched only to avoid glancing at Daryl. He could already tell in his periphery that the man had gone completely, dangerously still. “So you- you- how did you-”

“I jumped in the back, under the tarp. Then when Merle stopped to move a wrecked car off the road, I just…” Paul waved his hand. “He thought he was alone. Didn’t take the keys out of the ignition. He was pretty close to town and had his gun with him, so I figured he’d be ok walking the rest of the way to meet his-”

“You thought _Merle_ would be ok,” Daryl broke in, his voice strangled. “And if he hadn’t had his gun—which he could have used to _shoot you while you drove off_ —would you have, what, stayed in the truck? Waited until you had him _and_ his gang to deal with?”

“Daryl,” Rick said sharply, because Daryl’s voice was rising with every word. The man looked like he was hyperventilating, trying to keep himself from imploding.

Paul had never seen him so angry. “It worked. I got the truck back,” he said defensively.

Rick sighed and covered his eyes with his right hand as Daryl went off, yelling right into Paul’s face. “You got the truck- are you fucking- are you kidding me? Merle could have killed you, could have beaten the shit out of you, could have let his buddies kill you, you drove off the road, could have died then, could have been bitten while you were unconscious-”

“Daryl!” Rick shouted, grabbing at his shoulder and pulling him up. “Daryl, we’ve got to get back. Come on, man. You can scream at him later—he’s earned it—but we aren’t safe here. Let’s get him safe, then we can talk about it some more.”

For a moment Paul thought Daryl was going to start shouting at Rick next. He was breathing like an angry bull, red-faced, his fists clenched. Finally, after a long moment, he nodded.

“Stay there while we push the truck out of the ditch,” he snarled at Paul, eyes sliding away like he couldn’t stand to look at him. “Just- just keep your ass planted exactly where it is.”

There were tears in his narrow blue eyes.

Feeling wretched, Paul nodded. “Ok, Daryl.”

Tight lipped, Daryl exhaled and handed Paul his crossbow without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny update to resolve the cliffhanger <3


End file.
